A murder of crows:
"One for malice,
Two for mirth,
Three for a funeral,
Four for birth,
Five for silver,
Seven for a story that should never be told,
Eight for heaven,
Nine for hell,
Ten to the devil where he may dwell."
"The Mechanic."
The shop looked like any other civilian store on the front. At first glance it was a sweets shop. With its chipping wood, squeaky hinges, and lightly painted shutters, there was nothing suspicious about it. The pastries were homemade and subpar, the coffee was freshly brewed and a bit burnt (depending on who roasted the beans), and the tea was just like any other. The staff was cheery and as sweet as their pastries. And there were dozens of shops in the bustling town. It blended in with the other coffee, tea, and sweet shop. But mothers would hold their insisting children a little tighter when they strolled by. Chills would go down the spines of the customers as they sipped their drinks and ate their treats, even when the door was propped open to welcome the fresh winds of spring. Even the flowers seemed to wilt as soon as they were carried inside.
But nobody seemed to care. They shook off the strange chills, the prickling of their skin, the shadowy door to the side of the shop that everyone unconsciously avoided. Where no one entered or exited. After all, far more peculiar things have happened near the quaint village. Bone chilling howls could be heard from the mountains, where the military's Scouts resided. The Earth would tremor under their feet.
Peculiar indeed. But even humanity's bravest soldiers didn't give the shop a second glance and walked briskly past the inviting shop.
Until now.
They hung like willow trees.
Artificial limbs dangling from hooks embedded in the wooden ceiling glinted eerily in the soft artificial light generated by the single bulb in the middle of the forest of metal. The scent of freshly baked goods wafted from the crack in the door leading to the bakery, trying desperately to push away the heavy odor of grease that hung in the air.
Bolts, wrenches, slats of metal, soldering tools, and anything else mechanic were strewn about the room. The heavy counter that separated the front from the workshop was home to the finished products waiting for pickup. They were farm tools mostly, with the occasional pistol or shotgun. Not many knew about the shop within the bakery. It wasn't illegal by any means (which was surprising) but private. It was a business that required precision, not halfinished orders and stuck up customers. It was an artform.
Those that did know of the shop rarely came in person. It was common for them to meet the second mechanic in the bakery. A gentle and hospitable location with warm food and bright sun streaming in from the large windows, instead of the dimly lit workspace with prosthetic arms and legs hanging from hooks like fish.
So when a small man pushed open the door and caused the welcome bell to jingle (there were spider webs forming) one late afternoon, it almost made Thalia drop her screwdriver mid twist.
The woman looked up from her tedious work, pulling off her magnifying goggles and settling them around her neck. "How may I help you?" she asked, eyeing the customer.
The man was small. Short in stature and lithe in mass. He had a crop of black hair combed in a neat undercut and a sour pull of his mouth. In his arms was a burlap bag with something large tucked neatly away. His dark eyes swept around the room, mouth pulling into a sourer look at the mess.
He placed the sack on the counter with a thud and a small cloud of dust billowed up. "I was told you can fix ODM gear," he said.
Thalia mentally filed away the crisp military uniform and forest green cloak that hung over his thin shoulders. She pulled at the strings of the sack, opening it wide. Her fingers brushed against the cool metal as she carefully pulled the machine from its confinement. "Let me take a look." Pulling her goggles over her eyes, she bent over the guts of the machine. Her foot bounced on the peg of her stool as she picked over the parts. She wasn't an expert with the equipment, but well versed enough to draw a conclusion after a few moments of prodding.
Pulling down her goggles, she held up square that held the iron wire. "The belt that pulls the wire is worn out," she said. She fit her fingernail under the thin belt. "It's a simple replacement but the material can be hard to find,"
The man ran his finger across the counter, as though he were inspecting the dust. "Can you fix it or not?" he asked, impatient. He eyed his dust coated finger and the tip of his nose wrinkled.
Thalia tried not to bristle. "I'll put you on the list. What other problems does the gear have?" she began to put it back into the sack carefully.
He shrugged. "Hell if I know. I was just told to bring it,"
Her fingers faltered. She gave him a long look. "Someone told you to bring it here and didn't tell you what was wrong with it?" The military was slacking. He was most likely Interior Police, she decided. His laid back, mightier-than-thou attitude was practically bursting from the room.
He shrugged.
"Can I please have a name and occupation for your order?" she said, sliding from her perch on her stool to the pad of paper tucked under the counter.
She began scratching Military Police underneath all the other orders when he said, "Levi. Scout Regiment."
She paused. Slowly, she lifted her head and studied him.
Ah, that made sense why he wasn't told what was wrong. They most likely genuinely had no clue and didn't want to risk playing with it. Unlike the other two branches, it was vital the gear worked flawlessly to increase their survival rate. And it made sense why they came here. As far as Thalia was aware, Pops was the only component mechanic outside the most interior wall that didn't try to cheat you out of your money.
Pops had a soft spot for the maniacs. Which also meant Levi was top priority, much to her distaste.
"Rank?" she asked, turning back to the paper. She scratched out Military Police and wrote Levi, Scout (lunatic) at the top of the columns.
"Squad member." His voice was soft, but a twinge of authority rumbled beneath the surface. He moved from watching the particles of dust floating in the air to the few artificial limbs hanging from the ceiling.
Thalia slid the bag into her arms. Carefully, she placed it on a shelf a few paces from the front, pulling the front of it open so she could see it clearly and remember to tell Pops when he got back.
Tentatively, Levi raised his hand to brush his fingers against a metal arm directly above his head. Wires coiled out at odd places and a few joints were missing, but it was one of the few prosthetics Pops was close to finishing.
"Careful," Thalia said when his fingers brushed against the metal. "They're valuable,"
Levi lowered his hand, rubbing his fingers together. "What are they for?" he kept his eyes trained on it as though it would come alive at any moment.
She leaned her forearms on the counter, following his gaze. "The owner makes them. He's hoping to help cripples with the limbs." A seed of pride bloomed in her chest. Pops was a genius, and not the mad type. He had been designing and working on the limbs since he was a young man with little success. But that was before her family stepped in. He taught her everything she knew about machines.
The man gave her a skeptical glance and he crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm sure they'll love a floppy metal arm attached to them made by an old coot,"
The drop of respect she held for the soldier evaporated. Thalia tilted her head, mouth pulled down and eyebrows knotted. "Watch it, soldier. That man is about to fix your gear for a very reduced price. I wouldn't smack talk him if I were you." She drew herself to her full height, which was several inches above his head. "Pops has a plan. He always does."
Levi gave a huff. He stepped back from the counter and turned on his polished boot heel. "When should I expect the gear finished?"
Thalia rested the left side of her hip on the counter and her fist on the right, looping her fingers under the straps that nestled snugly on her clothes. "Come back in a week,"
Levi pulled at the door. The bell rang almost mournfully, and the heavy scent of the bakery invaded the musty room. "Can't promise it will be me,"
Thalia rivaled his poor attitude with her own. She tilted her chin up, cutting him a look with her gray eyes. "I hope it's a promise you don't keep." And with that he pulled the door shut, cutting her sight of the pure white wings stitched on the back of his cloak. Wings that were drenched in blood.
AN: A brain child of mine. I wanted to try posting part of what I'm working on to see how you guys like it. I'll be working on the full thing over the summer and posting the complete project at once in September. So chapters will be revised and changed. HOWEVER I would LOVE to hear advice and critiques you guys have. I love writing but help is always in order. You guys are amazing, love you all!